I wasn’t going to write today. I was going to take the day off, and for a split second, I didn’t feel guilty about that choice. A split and fleeting second that was over and replaced before I was able to enjoy it. Then the crazy crept in. As I looked at my Twitter feed, all I could see was post after post from Suzi So-and-So and Wendy Whooseywhatsit letting the world know that they’d just completed their 6,483rd day of daily posts which made me realize that yesterday was my 31st day and if I neglected today then tomorrow would require me to restart my counter back at one and then what was the point of discovering I might be a writer if I was going to waste my newfound resolve to WRITE by starting the new year off with a failure and that’s no way to set the tone so here I am vomiting out my neuroses yet again…..*deep breath.
My trouble today is two-fold:
1. I am hungover. Like, I-might-die-if I-stand-up-too-quickly-because-the-blood-will-rush-to-my-head-and-I-will-pass-out-in-a-crumpled-heap-which-will-upset-the-precarious-balance-of-my-stomach-and-cause-me-to-choke-on-the-vomit-that-comes-up-as-a-result HUNGOVER. (I am *this close* to deciding that binge drinking should be retired with no pomp to my rapidly growing Murtaugh List. One whiskey shot? Delightful. Five? In conjunction with an equally ridiculous number of Drop Top Pale Ales? Totally stupid.) Any type of thinking that goes on whilst feeling this horrid is bound to be flawed in any number of key ways. I am finding that it is incredibly difficult to concentrate on much else besides the pounding in my head keeping rhythm with the waves of nausea in my stomach. Although, if I were to regale you with even half of the things I ALLEGEDLY did and said upon returning home last evening, I’m certain you might pee yourself from laughing so hard. Drunk Jen stories notwithstanding, many of the brain cells I use when writing are still sweating out the poison I soaked them in last night.
2. I had not foreseen the trouble I’d have with writing unprompted. That was one thing that my Inner Monologue, in her infinite wisdom, neglected to worry about when naming her objections to the challenge I’ve put to myself. Last night was the first night in 31 that I went to sleep NOT thinking of how to best answer a question. (Admittedly, the only thing I was capable of thinking last night was the verbal equivalent of the fetal position, but you get my point.) Reverb10 was an excellent running start, but its end has posed a stumbling block. Today was not the day to be faced with that obstacle. I’m not really in fighting condition right now.
In the end though, it looks as if I did get a little something onto the page, and I’m glad about that. Tomorrow I shall begin in earnest figure out this trouble. I know I want to write, and I know now that I want to do that everyday. What’s left to figure out is the what of it all. What are my expectations of the things I put out there into the world? What will it all be about? What are my topics? Today was for questions (and gallons of 7-Up), tomorrow will be for answers.